“You’re in love with the young Cocharan.”

The cork exploded out, champagne fizzed and geysered from the bottle. Monique merely lifted her glass to be filled. “I’m not in love with him,” Summer said with an underlying desperation her mother recognized.

“One is always in love with one’s lover.”

“No, one is not.” With a bit more control, Summer poured the wine. “Affairs don’t have to be romantic and flowery. I’m fond of Blake, I respect him. I consider him an attractive, intelligent man and enjoy his company.”

“It’s possible to say the same of a brother, or an uncle. Even perhaps an ex-husband,” Monique commented. “This is not what I think you feel for Blake.”

“I feel passion for him,” Summer said impatiently. “Passion is not to be equated with love.”

“Ah, Summer.” Amused, Monique chose a grape. “You can think with your British mind, but you feel with your French heart. This young Cocharan isn’t a man any woman would lightly dismiss.”

“Like father like son?” The moment it was said, Summer regretted it.

But Monique only smiled, softly, reminiscently. “It occurred to me. I haven’t forgotten B.C.”

“Nor he you.”

Interested, Monique flipped back from the past. “You’ve met Blake’s father?”

“Briefly. When your name was mentioned he looked as though he’d been struck by lightning.”

The soft smile became brilliant. “How flattering. A woman likes to believe she remains in a man’s memory long after they part.”

“You may be flattered. I can tell you I was damned uncomfortable.”

“But why?”

“Mother.” Restless, Summer rose again and began to pace. “I was attracted to Blake—very much attracted—and he to me. How do you think I felt when I was talking to his father, and both B.C. and I were thinking about the fact that you’d been lovers? I don’t think Blake has any idea. If he did, do you realize how awkward the situation would be?”

“Why?”

On a long breath, Summer turned to her mother again. “B.C. was and is married to Blake’s mother. I get the impression Blake’s rather fond of his mother, and of his father.”

“What does that have to do with it?” Monique’s gesture was typically French—a slight shrug, a slight lifting of the hand, palm out. “I was fond of his father too. Listen to me,” she continued before Summer could retort. “B.C. was always in love with his wife. I knew that then. We consoled each other, made each other laugh in what was a miserable time for both of us. I’m grateful for it, not ashamed of it. Neither should you be.”

“I’m not ashamed.” Frustrated, Summer dragged a hand through her hair. “I don’t ask you to be, but—damn it, Mother, it’s awkward.”

“Life often is. You’ll remind me there are rules, and so there are.” She threw back her head and took on the regal haughtiness her daughter had inherited. “I don’t play by the rules, and I don’t apologize.”

“Mother.” Cursing herself, Summer went and knelt beside the couch. “I wasn’t criticizing you. It’s only that what’s right for you, what’s good for you, isn’t right and good for me.”